


If Love Was Fair

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Falling Angels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Nudity, Post S8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel loses his wings. Dean helps the best he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Love Was Fair

He’s bloody when Dean finds him.

He doesn’t land too far from the bunker. Dean searches the woods outside Lebanon after he and Sam return from the church, Sam immediately passing out in the front seat of the Impala and Dean carrying him inside and into bed. Hopefully he can sleep it off, or his body can at least begin recovering from whatever the Trials started. As long as Sam survives, he’ll be fine. He’ll be _fine_.

Adrenaline doesn't let him rest, though. Dean runs out the back door once he’s sure Sam is alright and not about to choke on his own blood, muddied boots crunching dead leaves beneath his feet. Around him, the air smells of burning feathers and disturbed dirt, screams littering the air. Every few minutes, a crash reverberates through the barren landscape, rattling the trees; no groans are heard after the impact. Everyone that falls is dead or dying, or by some miracle they _survive_ long enough to walk away. They’re falling, he knows—the Angels are dying one by one around him, and he doesn't even know who to blame.

Never once does he blame Castiel. His mind runs along a single track as he makes his way across the wet earth and through the trees, hell-bent on finding the Angel, or at least what’s left of him. He doesn't even know if he’s there in the first place—Castiel could be half a world away, walking the earth of some foreign land on his own. What if he can’t fly? What if he can’t call? He could be _dead_ for all Dean knows, and his heart seizes at the idea, that it could possibly be _his_ fault that Castiel is bleeding out in a ditch, that he’ll never be able to see him again.

There’s a man lingering along the bank of a dirtied river when Dean emerges from the forest, the bleakness of the scenery astounding. White lights illuminate the purpled sky, falling miles and miles away and disappearing beyond the horizon. The figure watches them with his eyes to the abyss, knees in the mud, the back of his coat soaked red, ripped and tattered at the seams. He’s crying, Dean notices—Castiel is _crying_.

“I did it,” Castiel admits when Dean runs to him, turning the Angel away from the sky, forcing him to look into his eyes. Castiel’s are bloodshot and wary; wetness streaks his face, and Dean doesn't know if it’s from the rain or his tears. “This is my fault, Dean—my siblings—.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean growls, helping to pull Castiel to his feet, his body slumping into Dean’s arms, like he can’t lift himself. He touches a hand to Castiel’s back, fingers coming away red, blood fresh against his skin. “Are you—?”

Castiel shakes his head against his shoulder, and something in Dean breaks. “My wings,” Castiel sobs, his voice shot, shoulders trembling with the struggle to stay upright. “My wings—.”

He doesn't bother to tell Castiel that it’ll be alright—nothing about this ever will be. Sam is barely clinging to life, Castiel is obviously having some sort of unspoken crisis, and Dean’s the only one remotely clinging to all of his faculties. But for how long? he considers, breath coming in short pants as he eyes the scenery. They’re about half a mile from home—he can get Castiel back in time, he hopes. Before the world closes in and they’re left to their own devices. Tomorrow will yield answers—for now, he lowers himself to his knees and motions for Castiel to climb onto his back, Dean getting a good grip on his knees once he’s in place, Castiel’s tensing arms over his shoulders. He’s heavy; Dean doesn't speak a word of it.

They tread through the woods together, slower this time, Dean adjusting his hold every few steps in fear of Castiel sliding off his back and into the dirt. Castiel won’t stop groaning, complaining about something in Enochian, foreign syllables sounding like despair in his ears. He wants to ask what’s wrong, wants to pull him aside and wipe the tears away, but he can’t, not when the world is falling around them and death is looming around every tree.

He’s still bleeding when they step past the threshold, Dean carrying Castiel down the stairs and through the halls, careful to not make a sound. Sam is still asleep when he peeks into his room, actually snoring; at least there’s that. Maybe one of them will be okay after this; based on the way Castiel is breathing, it may not be him.

He lets Castiel to his feet once they’re in the shower room, Castiel wavering on unsure footing on the tile floor, red dripping off his coat. “You’re soaked,” Dean states, and Castiel doesn't even fight the obviousness of it, simply falls forward into Dean’s arms. “Okay, okay,” he breathes, a hand in Castiel’s hair, another around his waist. “Need to figure out where from, you gotta let me get you undressed.” Castiel nods against his shoulder, but makes no effort to move. “Cas, c’mon…”

Castiel walks with him reluctantly, Dean leading him to one of the larger shower stalls and shedding him of his coat as he goes, tossing it into a corner along with his shoes and socks. He’s still shivering when he palms his shoulders, Castiel’s face pinching in subdued agony from such a small movement. _It’s his back_ , Dean thinks. _It’s his_ …

With little help from Castiel, Dean manages to slide his jacket off in the shelter of the shower stall, red seeping into the white grout and trickling down the drain. He sucks in a breath at the sight of his shirt, scarlet staining the fabric from back to front, utterly ruined. “What happened?” he manages, voice wavering, fingers opening his shirt button by button, revealing patches of blood streaking down his ribs, dried somewhere between the swamp and here. Castiel doesn't speak, simply looks at his bare feet, red tingeing his toes. “Cas, please…”

“He took them,” are Castiel’s only words before Dean slides the tattered remains of his shirt off, fabric torn into slits at the back, dark reds and blacks staining his fingers when he drops it to the floor. He can’t speak—couldn't if he tried. “Metatron took my wings.”

Castiel bears the horrible evidence on his back, turning to expose the lacerated skin spanning the vee of his shoulder blades, small nubs of leftover bone barely protruding from the gashes, black feathers hanging on by little more than a miracle. Blood still seeps from the wounds in a slow trickle, now nothing more than slits in tanned skin; he needs stitches, needs to be patched up before weakness settles in and he collapses—before he _dies_ , and Dean is left to burn his body on the pyre.

He doesn't need that— _Castiel_ doesn't need that.

“You, sit,” Dean orders, pushing down on Castiel’s bare shoulders, his body going willingly, almost in relief. “I’m gonna get my kit, and we’re gonna patch you up, alright? Don't _move_.”

“It won’t work,” Castiel says as he heads to the bathroom door, stopping him before he reaches for the knob. Over his shoulder, he spots the look Castiel shoots him, eyes downcast and despairing, a hand reaching back to slide over the cuts, face pulling tight into a wince. “…I’m no use to you like this. It’d be best if you just let me be.”

He doesn't say anything—doesn't want to, knowing the only words he can think of are his _feelings_ , already scraped raw and aching in his chest. _I’m not letting you die here. I let you down. I shouldn't’ve let you go._ His hands itch with the need to touch him though, the need to tell him he won’t die alone, that he’ll get through this, just like everything else. Instead, he leaves the room and a bleeding Castiel to hunt for his medical kit in the trunk of the Impala, returning with it, a quarter-empty bottle of whiskey and a few clean washrags stashed in a bucket. Castiel remains silent as he sets up his supplies and fills the tub with warm water from the sink, placing it at his side. “Take your pants off. And—underwear too, I need to see what I’m workin’ with.”

Castiel complies without resistance, worming his way out of the remainder of his clothing without standing, Dean holding him upright while he tugs everything off and out of the way, leaving him bare in the middle of the stall. Dean closes the curtain; Sam doesn't need to see this, if he even wakes up any time soon.

His first mission is getting Castiel clean, however well he can. Castiel hisses at the first touch of wet cloth to his back, starting at his lower back and working upwards, erasing the reddened lines with each cautious swipe. For the most part, he ignores the pained whimpers and settles himself on ridding Castiel of blood, occasionally swiping down to gather up the drops that spill over, until he’s clean, skin drenched in cooling water and sweat. “It’s not that bad,” Dean says, more to himself than anyone else. It’s a nightmare, they both know; each swipe of the rag, each touch twists his stomach, knowing what it represents. What it really means.

Castiel laughs at his front, his shoulders shaking with the hollowness of it, the pain of realization. “I should’ve died,” he whispers, oddly cheerful about it. “I should’ve—The fall should’ve killed me. At least then, I wouldn't… You wouldn't have to see me like this.”

Wringing out the rag in the bucket, he stares at Castiel, eyes glancing between the gnarled mess of his back and the tears flowing down his cheeks, almost unnoticed. “…See you like what?”

He palms at Castiel’s shoulder, tearing another whine from him as he falls into the touch, another rush of blood seeping from his wounds, smaller this time. “Broken.” Dean’s eyes widen, hand gripping tighter. “Useless. I’m… Without my grace, without my wings… What am I to you, then?”

“You’re human.” Castiel shakes his head at that, Dean exhaling through his nose. “And you’re here, you’re _breathing_. What, you think I’d turn your ass out if you fell?” Silence; Castiel doesn't answer, only closes his eyes. “…You—.”

“I’m not useful to you if I can’t cater to your whims or heal you. I’m not…” Another tear falls, and Castiel’s shoulders shake, a sob breaking through. “I’m nothing.”

He doesn't bother with platitudes or any words of consolation—even if he said them, Castiel wouldn't believe it. Believe _him_ , too. Dean Winchester may be known for a lot of things, but telling the truth isn’t one of them. With a heavy heart, he crawls across the porcelain floor and pulls Castiel into his arms, his friend crying soundlessly into his neck in their embrace, Castiel’s hands in his own lap, Dean’s rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades, in the hopes of easing some of the tension there. It doesn't help, but it’s the thought that counts.

A dying feather falls onto the blood-soaked floor at Castiel’s back, Dean closing his eyes to the sight of it, instead holding Castiel closer, uncaring of his nudity or the blood that coats his fingers, fresh and warm against his skin. “You’re everything,” Dean whispers, voice faltering. It’s just the two of them; he shouldn't feel as nervous as he does, his heart beating an irregular rhythm in his chest, struggling to regulate his breathing, to maintain any semblance of calm.

It doesn't work. “You’re more than just your wings, Cas,” he murmurs, Castiel shaking his head in disbelief. Closing his eyes, he exhales through his nose and continues, “You really think that after all these years, after everything we’ve been through, all the shit we’ve pulled… After Hell, after the apocalypse, after Purgatory… You really think we wouldn't want you around? …That _I_ wouldn't?” Castiel doesn't answer.

“I don’t give a damn that you don’t got your Grace anymore,” Dean sighs, slipping his hands down Castiel’s bare back, reaching up to cup his face. Still, Castiel doesn't look at him, _won’t_. Tears spill from closed eyes, year’s worth of pent up frustration and anger, sadness and despair all flowing freely now, dripping off his chin. “I don’t give a _damn_ that you’re not an Angel. You know what I care about?” In his grip, Castiel shakes his head, a faint shiver running through him. “I’m—Hell, I’m fuckin’ _glad_. ‘Cause you don’t get to run off anymore, ‘n you don’t… _God_ , I’m a selfish bastard to want you here, but I _do_ , Cas. You’re the only damn thing that’s holdin’ me together these days—.”

“You’re right,” Castiel mutters, words thick in his throat. Dean cocks an eyebrow at him, unseen. “You’re selfish, to want me here in the first place. You’re only putting yourself in danger.” He attempts to speak again, Castiel cutting him off with, “The other Angels will be hunting for my head, and all you want… You want me to stay here, for what? To watch me suffer? Because I’m some sort of trophy, because I’m… _charity_ to you?” Dean pulls him back down before he can stand, legs weak underneath him. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Does it look like I’m pitying you?” Bloodshot eyes stare back at him; Dean narrows his own in challenge. “I’ve—I’ve wanted you to stay. For _years_ , Cas. But I can’t—I don't _get_ to have what I want. And every time I thought you’d stick around for more than five minutes, you were off again doin’ _God_ knows what. And what do you get for it?” With caution, he skirts his fingers down one of Castiel’s shoulder blades, ignoring the pained wail he gets in return, the body that slumps against his own in resignation. “Forgive me for _caring_ , will you?”

“You don’t care,” Castiel rumbles, forlorn.

Dean grits his teeth, fighting the urge to slap his back. “’S the problem with me,” he says back, thumbing beneath Castiel’s eyes to gather up spilled tears. “I care too much about poor sons of bitches who’re convinced they’re only useful when they’re amped up on Angel juice.”

Castiel shakes his head again, a faint smile teasing his lips, agonized. “Don’t lie, Dean,” he scolds, reaching up to wipe his other eye clean. Dean strokes down his arm in compromise, Castiel absently falling into the touch, the warmth of it. His skin is chilled now, both from the air conditioning and blood loss, regularly tanned skin paled in the last hour. “Don’t—Don’t do this for my benefit.”

“’S not,” Dean sighs and bows his head, letting their foreheads rest against one another, Castiel’s eyes half lidded, welling again. “Contrary to what’s goin’ on in that head of yours, we actually _like_ havin’ you around. We’re not… You’re useful in a lot of ways, but we’re not _using_ you.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, chewing his lip. “You’ve never called me just because you wanted to, Dean.”

“I’ve wanted to.” He lowers his head again, nose nudging Castiel’s neck as he leans in, just resting there. “ _Believe_ me, I did. But me and Sammy… We don’t get _down_ days. And you’re always up there doin’ Heaven stuff—.” Castiel cuts him off with another whine, this time louder, echoing off the tile. “ _Fuck_ , _Cas_ , just…” _Stop talking, Dean_. “We just… You’re not some disposable jackass to us, you’re not… You’re more than your wings.” He pulls back and runs his knuckles across Castiel’s cheek, feeling the stubble there, the dried blood under his fingertips. Even now, he won’t meet Dean’s gaze, the floor between their knees apparently more interesting. “What’d you think I meant when I said I needed you?”

Castiel shakes his head, matted hair in his eyes. “There are different types of need,” he explains, barely audible. “You’ve only _needed_ me when I’m useful to you. When I can save you and your brother or assist in a case, or—.”

“That’s not what I _meant_.” Tipping up Castiel’s chin, he finally meets his eyes, red rimmed and sad, still weeping from pain and hopelessness; Dean wipes them away each time, catching the drops on his fingers. “You know I—everyone I care about, everyone I’ve ever… It’s never worked out for them in the end. But I… I want you, Cas. You ‘n only you. You… You deserve so much more than I got to give, but… If I could have anything right now, it’s you. So don’t go tellin’ me that I don’t _care_ or I’m _guilty_. It’s you, Cas. …’S always been you.

“And I know you don’t believe me.” He swipes a thumb over Castiel’s eye, gathering up more wetness, ultimately doing nothing to stop the tears that still fall, pooling into a neat puddle on the floor. “But… Damnit, give me that chance, will you? One more chance, that’s all I’m askin’. And if it don’t work…” He glances down at his bare feet, chest deflating with his sigh. “…Then we’ll figure somethin’ out.”

Castiel doesn't speak for a long moment, cobalt irises still watching Dean with hesitance, wringing his hands in his lap. Fear roils in Dean’s gut, the inkling that Castiel will say _no_ , that he’ll leave the first chance he gets terrifying him more than the mangled wings and the feathers littering the floor, more than the blood that taints his hands. Because he’ll leave. He’ll find a way back to Heaven or live his newly human life on his own, and never send a post card. No _thank you_ or _goodbye_ , not even a wave.

The longer Castiel stays silent, the shallower his breaths become, the faster his heart races until pale lips finally part, words croaking from within. “I want you to stitch my back.”

All of his tension leaves in one exhale. He can deal with that—it’s the least he can do, for now. With a nod, he takes one of Castiel’s hands, brushing over bruised knuckles with a tear-soaked thumb, struggling to hide the temporary excitement in his chest, on his face. “Whatever you want, Cas.”

Castiel nods, nudging Dean’s forehead with his own until they’re caught in each other’s stares. “I want you to prove to me that you’re a truthful as you claim,” he says, and lowers his face into Dean’s neck, body a dead weight against him. “I want you to prove you care, Dean.”

“I’ll always care,” he whispers, bringing his arms around Castiel’s back, rubbing between his shoulder blades again, Castiel snuffling from the attention.

Later, after Dean’s cleaned the last remnant of blood from his skin and sutured his skin back together to the best of his ability, he leads Castiel to his room and lets him settle himself on the left side, Dean draping the comforter over his bare waist. Tomorrow, he’ll set up a room for him with fresh linens and leftover furniture in the storage rooms, let Castiel pick out whatever he wants to decorate it with. To make himself at home. For now, he lets Castiel sleep and keeps him company, stroking his hair until the adrenaline wears off and he nods off against the headboard, waking later to Castiel’s hand on his knee and soft breaths being panted into his lap, body relaxed probably for the first time in his existence.

He lowers himself to the bed shortly after, drawing an arm around Castiel’s waist and holding him close, tucking his head under his chin. “Love you,” he whispers, and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a starter, I've been reading the comments on my last fic, and I really appreciate the responses I've gotten. I still can't stand it, but I'm really glad all y'all liked it! Anywho, this one right here's been a bit of catharsis for me, and I like it a bit better. Plus, I've always wanted to write something about Cas losing his wings. So, here you go!
> 
> Title is from the Ashley Monroe song. Seriously, give her a listen. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity). 
> 
> Also, if you haven't yet seen, check out my [DCBB preview!](http://tragidean.tumblr.com/post/127636191211/aftermath-story-by-loversantiquities-art-by) "Aftermath" will debut this fall!


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